On the spot with the Crystal Set

Bernard Zuel

It was the mid-1980s, the psychedelic guitar-pop band was called the Crystal Set and I liked them. Plus, one of the members was the younger brother of Steve Kilbey from the Church, a band I followed religiously and an artist I had imitated slavishly during my attempts to be a songwriter.

So when the editor of what was then the best music magazine in the country, RAM, agreed to me writing a profile of the Crystal Set as my first story after months as a reviewer, I was beyond thrilled. And well past terrified. This was the big league and, well, these were cool inner-city types and I was some boy reporter from the western suburbs.

I turned up very, very early to the Rozelle house the band shared ("like the Monkees!" I thought, but wisely didn't say) and, as the album played, sat in the car going over my heavily researched questions and working out how to make them believe I had every right to be there, even if I doubted I did.

An hour later, the interview had gone well – I had fooled them. Sure, in retrospect, we were about the same age, they hadn't been long in Sydney from Canberra and with this being their first feature they must have been at least as nervous as I was but, at the time, I only saw poise.

I left the house relieved and excited, already writing that opening paragraph in my head, and as I approached the car, patted my pocket for the keys. No keys. Anywhere. Except, oh yes, in the car.

I could break into a sweat but I couldn't break into cars. There was no choice but to go back and, professional credibility evaporating like my so-called career, ask for help getting into my car.

They laughed, of course, but were lovely and helpful and eventually waved me on my way cheerily. I drove west, sunk into my seat, knowing for sure now that I was the doofus from the suburbs who stupidly thought he could hang out with the cool kids.